


Men of Taste and Privilege

by manic_intent



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Season 1, Sort Of, That AU where Will was fired from the police and stayed fired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27147578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: Will sketched loops in silver with the fly line against the burnished orange of the deep morning, reading the water. Early summer meant trying to imitate golden stones with a bright red and yellow Stimmie, which he’d tied last night out of goose biot feathers for the tail and gold tinsel for the body. The best casting spot for the lure today lined up with an old tree, its gritty bark jagged with tongues of pale fungus, its boughs still cradling an old bird’s nest, abandoned for over a year now and still structurally intact.“Any luck?”“Not so far,” Will said. He reeled in the line and turned, picking out the dark, broad-shouldered man in a suit by his kit. Sharp-eyed, square-jawed, pugnacious curiosity: the man had to be a cop of some breed or other. “Can I help you?”
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 42
Kudos: 522





	Men of Taste and Privilege

**Author's Note:**

> Finally watched Hannibal this year after putting it off for a while: I’m not very good with watching TV shows—I have a low attention span. Reading back on Will’s wiki article, he lost his job as a homicide detective because he doesn’t use his gun “when necessary”? But still got a teaching job in the FBI? Given what happened to Stephen Mader, idk this would’ve been the case, and as such this AU was born.

Will sketched loops in silver with the fly line against the burnished orange of the deep morning, reading the water. Early summer meant trying to imitate golden stones with a bright red and yellow Stimmie, which he’d tied last night out of goose biot feathers for the tail and gold tinsel for the body. The best casting spot for the lure today lined up with an old tree, its gritty bark jagged with tongues of pale fungus, its boughs still cradling an old bird’s nest, abandoned for over a year now and still structurally intact. 

“Any luck?” 

“Not so far,” Will said. He reeled in the line and turned, picking out the dark, broad-shouldered man in a suit by his kit. Sharp-eyed, square-jawed, pugnacious curiosity: the man had to be a cop of some breed or other. “Can I help you?” 

“Are you Will Graham?”

“Who’s asking?” Will said, wary. 

“I’m Agent Jack Crawford. FBI.” Jack flashed his badge and a thin smile, making a show of studying the river and Will’s kit. “Not a bad life. Nice settlement, early retirement. Spend your time fishing all day?” 

Will stiffened, his hand tightening on the rod. He’d heard this line of attack before, in uglier words, from people he’d thought he’d trusted. It still hurt, even from a stranger. “It isn’t too bad. I didn’t realise the FBI was in the habit of checking in on forcibly retired officers.”

Jack chuckled, mirthless. “Sadly, no. We are, however, in the habit of checking in on pertinent leads when it comes to an open case. About your comment in yesterday’s Tattle Crime—”

“What? I don’t talk to tabloids.” 

“‘The Chesapeake Ripper is an artist,’” Jack read aloud from his phone. “’He bears, however, no love for his material of choice, only a clinical contempt whose utter cruelty can only be explained by the fact that yes, he knew all his victims, and despised them in some way. The way he displays his kills is elaborate because he can’t help but show off, like a peacock. There’s nothing interesting about that.’”

“Shit.” Will rubbed a hand slowly over his face. “That’s the last time I go drinking in a city pub.” 

“You didn’t know you were talking to the notorious Miss Freddie Lounds?” Jack raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t know who that is. I was drinking, and some lady at the bar came up to me. Said she recognised me from the news, that she was sorry I got fired. She seemed nice, and I’d already had a few drinks—hell, we talked about politics, mostly. I didn’t know that she was a journalist.” 

“‘Journalist’ is putting it broadly.” Jack’s smile looked a fraction warmer. “Do you want us to keep shouting at each other over the stream, or can we go somewhere with fewer insects?” 

“Depends on why the FBI’s so interested in an off-the-cuff statement that appeared in a tabloid.”

Jack exhaled. “Get out of the water. I’m gonna need you to come with me.”

#

The dead man had been baked into a pie, the centrepiece of a table setting. His hand, tarred and feathered black, held a pink rose between fingers set into a beak. The wings of a peacock and its tail fanned outward from the buttery crust. The rest of the table setting looked artfully mundane: a small roast chicken, one and a half pieces of flatbread, one and a half lemons, rind hanging off a silver plate, a platter of black peppercorns, herbs, a loaf of bread, a bowl of apples and their leaves. Hell, even a silver pitcher and a glass of water.

“Where’s the rest of him?” Will asked, staring at the pie. 

“The Chesapeake Ripper never leaves his entire kill behind,” Jack said. 

“He usually leaves most of it behind. Only keeps trophies. Things he can dispose of easily if he wants to. This is a risk.” Will ducked under the police tape around the abandoned barn. A cop stepped in his way, only to back off at some signal from Jack. The barn didn’t smell like the crime scenes Will was used to. No charnel stink. Officers and forensic photographers swarmed the scene, picking it over with a fatalistic air. The Chesapeake Ripper had never left clues behind before.

“Peter Claesz,” said an Asian woman as she drew up beside him. Gloved up, navy jacket, neat shoes: another agent. 

“The victim?” Will asked.

“No. We haven’t traced him yet. I meant the artist whose work the Ripper recreated. Still life with a peacock pie, painted in 1627.” The woman glanced at Jack as he ambled up to their side. 

“This is Will Graham,” Jack said with a nod at Will. “Will, Agent Beverley Katz.” 

“Oh.” Beverley looked Will over with renewed interest. “You’re the guy who talked to Lounds.”

“I talked to a woman in a bar who bought me a drink,” Will said. He googled the painting on his phone, comparing it with the scene. Perfect down to the rumpled fist of tablecloth beside the chicken. 

“Interesting enough for you now?” Beverley asked, her smile sharp and tight. 

“There’s nothing interesting about someone who would do something like this. He wants to seem refined. Pretend he’s somehow different from every other killer out there who kills for fun.” Will put his phone away. “I think it’s sad.”

“Sad?” Jack said.

“All this tells me is that whoever it is who did this is an immensely petty person, and that’s probably how you’d end up catching him,” Will said. As he looked from the apples to the displayed knife, the ambit of old habits pressed down over his senses. Beverley was saying something to Jack, their voices resounding as ugly interruptions against the weight of revelation, the scatter burst euphoria he sometimes used to feel at a crime scene just before he solved a case. 

“Graham. Graham!” Jack’s voice shook Will to blinking. 

“Sorry. Yes?” Will rubbed his temple, trying to shake off the rest. “Er. Speaking of which. Why did you bring me here? I’m no longer a cop.” 

Jack studied Will’s face carefully. His smile was slow in coming, and none too friendly. “Because part of me’s surprised that you’re not the one baked into the pie, Mister Graham. Which tells me two things. One: maybe you’re next, and this was a warning. Two: you could be useful.” 

“The Ripper doesn’t toy with his victims like that. He doesn’t…” Will rubbed his temple, gritting his teeth. Euphoria melded uneasily with nausea, welling up in his throat as bile. Will fumbled for the pills in his pocket, and the bottle went flying, fetching up by a pair of shiny oxblood shoes. The newcomer stooped, picking up the bottle and glancing at it. Tall man with dusty golden hair and a face that was all sharp angles, sliced close against the bone. Too esoterically well-dressed to be an agent, in a three-piece striped suit with a wine-dark tie pricked with faint silver flecks. He tossed the bottle back to Will and watched as Will swallowed his medication dry. 

“Cytoxan shouldn’t be taken as casually as one would take aspirin,” said the man. Recent arrival—there was a fancy car past the police tape and the usual peanut gallery of gawkers.

“It’s my usual dose, just taken a little late. Given distractions,” Will said, trying not to bristle. 

“This is Doctor Hannibal Lecter, a consultant with the Bureau,” Jack said, with a nod at Hannibal. “A psychiatrist who’s been providing us with profiles for our cases.” 

“You were saying something about the Ripper,” Hannibal prompted as Will stared at Jack in bemusement. 

“I had an… an impression. It’s gone now,” Will said, pocketing the pills. Swallowed by the noise. The air felt like it was leaking out of the room, stifling him. “Can I go?” 

“You don’t seem worried about possibly being the Ripper’s next target,” Jack said, with a nod at the table. 

“He won’t kill again so close to this one,” Will said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and breathing shallowly as he tried to make it to the door. 

“Oh?” Jack said. 

_It’s in the reports_ , Will nearly said, which would’ve been true enough. “He doesn’t need to,” was what he said instead before he could bite the words down. Ducking his head, ears hot, Will walked out as quickly as he could without breaking into a jog.

Past the police line, a familiar redhead cut through the gawkers toward him. “Mister Graham,” Freddie said.

“Save it,” Will snapped. Thankfully, she didn’t follow as he lurched over to the line of cars and stumbled to a stop, breathing hard. Ah, right. Jack had driven him here. 

As Will stared blankly at the dusty road, Hannibal said, “Need a lift?”

“Didn’t you just get here?” Will asked, gesturing at the barn. 

“There’s nothing else to see,” Hannibal said. He smiled, a gesture that looked practised. Warm without offering warmth, gentle without promising gentleness. A psychiatrist’s armour, maybe. Will didn’t have much experience with the breed.

“Sure. Thanks.”

#

“Haven’t had enough?” Will asked as Freddie got out of her car. His dogs whuffed and surged past, wagging their tails frantically as they sniffed her hands. Winston sat by him though, ears pricked. “You might get us both killed.”

“You didn’t appear to care much about that possibility before.” Freddie took a box out from the front seat. “Peace offering?” 

Will sniffed, scratching at his jaw. “What is it?”

“Bottle of whisky. Johnnie Walker. Your ex-partner said it was your favourite.” 

“Fucking Mitch. Christ. You’d better come in.” 

Freddie’s inquisitive gaze swept Will’s drab living room as he let her through, the dogs rearranging themselves in front of the fireplace. As she studied Will’s workbench, Will said, “I fish.” 

“I know what a lure looks like.” Freddie sat down in an armchair without being invited, setting the box down on the coffee table. She accepted a cup of coffee with a smile that was no less practised than Hannibal’s, though hers did little to hide the hunger in her eyes. 

“Was that what you were trying to get out of me? A lure?”

“Honestly? No. I didn’t expect to get a sound bite. I recognised you from your case and just thought I’d buy you a drink. For doing the decent thing.”

“I didn’t do a decent thing.” Will sat down tiredly on the couch. “It’s not hard to see when someone needs help. I’ve de-escalated situations before that were more dangerous than that.” 

“Your colleagues didn’t think so.”

“I’d say, seeing as they shot him eight times in the chest. Then fired me for not joining in. Or shooting him first.”

“How’s that not the decent thing?” 

“When it’s the correct thing to do. No right or wrong about it. It wasn’t ‘good’ of me not to gun down an unwell man who was trying to get himself killed by a cop. It was the correct thing to do as a trained law enforcement officer. People complicate things and forget that. That often, what we’re looking at is terrible people who’re terrible at their jobs, doing the exact opposite of what they’ve sworn to do. Yet they should somehow be above reproach because they have a gun and a badge.” 

“Wouldn’t drawing out the Chesapeake Ripper also be the correct thing to do?” Freddie asked, smiling. 

“You’ve just seen what happens when he gets ‘drawn out’,” Will said, “and I wasn’t even trying. Someone died because of what you put in your paper. Don’t you understand how dangerous this is?”

“ _I_ understand that the Ripper will never be caught unless he trips up,” Freddie said, leaning forward. “And the chance of that happening is just going to get smaller and smaller with time and practice, until the day he stops, then it’d just be filed away as a cold case, and nobody will care. No one should get away with murder.” 

“That’s not difficult in this country,” Will said with a dry laugh. “Happens all the time, if you’re rich enough, well-connected enough, have a badge, or white enough. Answer’s no, Miss Lounds, and if I were you, I’d start packing protection.” 

“I usually do,” Freddie said, patting her bag. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

“Sure,” Will said, only to frown as another car rolled to a stop in his driveway. Hannibal got out, tilting his head as he saw them both through the window. 

“Were you expecting more company?” Freddie asked, pitching her voice low. 

“No.” 

Freddie nodded. “Careful with that one,” she said as she got to her feet. She smiled sweetly at Hannibal as she got to her car. While he nodded at her, his expression remained impassive. He assumed a friendlier air as Will walked out onto the porch. 

“Will,” Hannibal said. 

“Why’s everyone driving out here all of a sudden? Did I wear the wrong aftershave this morning or something?” Will said, frowning as Hannibal brought over a paper bag from the passenger seat. 

That made Hannibal wrinkle his nose. “Sadly, you’re still wearing the same unfortunate brand.”

“Ha.” Will took the offered bag. Surprisingly heavy—and stacked neatly with tupperware filled to the brim with food. He gave Hannibal a blank stare. 

“Sausages,” Hannibal said with a bland smile. “I made them myself.” 

“I might have been vegetarian.”

“A vegetarian who enjoys fishing?” 

“Driving all the way here to deliver some sausages is a little odd, isn’t it?” Will asked, because he might be retired, but the instincts he’d trained as a detective still lingered, hungry for justification. 

“I could be rightly described as ‘a little odd’,” Hannibal said. His smile grew less practised as Will stared at him. 

“Is this really a social call, Doctor?” 

“It’s partly professional. I’m curious about your impression of the Chesapeake Ripper.” 

“You too, huh.” Will scrubbed his hand over his face. “Look. I’m not gonna angle in on your gig with the FBI, if that’s what you’re concerned about. That life’s behind me now.” 

“That possibility did not cross my mind at all, and I’m sorry if I gave you that impression in any way,” Hannibal said, and looked so puzzled that Will found himself inviting the man into his house. He made coffee—again—and tipped out the sausages into an old container he found in the cupboard, stuffing it into his battered fridge and returning the tupperware bag to Hannibal. Hannibal glanced up, still petting the dogs. Fur dusted the hem of his deep green suit.

“You said that the Ripper doesn’t toy with his victims,” Hannibal said. 

“He doesn’t toy with his _known_ victims,” Will said, having had all night to rethink off-the-cuff remarks. “The ones we’ve found. A man like that relishes power. He probably has several other, less lethal ways of inflicting this relish on the people around him, who might not even know that they’re also victims.”

“And you find people like that uninteresting,” Hannibal said, amused. “Over-exposure from your previous line of work, perhaps?” 

“In a way. Murder is often about power. Displaying it or retaking it. Or both. There’s nothing interesting about people who crave that kind of thing. But yes, my previous job soured me on police work in general.”

“Because you were fired for accurately judging a situation?”

Will shook his head. “Do you know, I was glad, in the end, that it happened? I should’ve quit in the first year of being on the force. The things I’ve seen and heard… you can’t talk about just a ‘few bad apples’ without considering that the rest of the phrase reads ‘poison the whole barrel’.” 

“And are you?” Hannibal said, his practised smile widening. “Poisoned?” 

“What do you think, Doctor?” Will asked, mirroring his smile.

“Are you asking me for a professional opinion?” 

“I think you’ve already formed a professional opinion. You’re just wondering whether to give voice to it for free.” 

Hannibal’s laugh looked as practiced as his smile. Long-dormant hackles shook awake, rising. Will wiped clammy palms over days-old jeans, unsettled and wishing that he could pinpoint why he was uneasy. Maybe it was Hannibal’s self-assured elegance, even surrounded by dogs in a ratty old house and dusted by their fur, the dignity of a man with the world at his fingertips and nothing to fear. 

“That’s an uncharitable summary,” Hannibal said. 

“Prove me wrong, then.”

“Some intelligent people are often consciously manipulative,” Hannibal said, “because they see the truth of the world around them and choose to change it.” 

“Is that your professional opinion of me? Hardly relevant, is it? Are we talking about yourself? Maybe the Ripper?” 

“Have your pick,” Hannibal said, with his catlike amusement. 

“Let’s talk about you, then. How did a psychiatrist end up working for the FBI?” 

“By being fortunate enough to know some people in interesting places,” Hannibal said, steepling his fingers before him. “You had a remarkable solve rate in the BPD. It’s still the departmental record, I believe. How is it that a detective who finds his natural prey uninteresting can solve every homicide case that he’s assigned to?” 

“I just know.” Will held up a hand as Hannibal began to speak. “It’s hard to explain. And yeah, I’ve never made an arrest without conclusive evidence. I just. I’ll enter a crime scene, and I’ll get these… my partner called it ‘intuitive leaps of logic’. Used to laugh, too, until our solve rate skyrocketed.” 

“You’re never wrong?” Hannibal asked, curious. 

“I don’t magically acquire details like the perpetrator’s name and Social Security number if that’s what you’re thinking about. I gain these insights that tend to pan out, that’s all. Into motive. Sensation. Things like that.”

“Sensation?” 

“I get a feel for what the murderer was thinking.” Will huffed. “Now that I’m saying it out loud to a psychiatrist, it sounds unbelievable.” 

“It sounds fascinating,” Hannibal corrected, and here now was the hunger in his eyes, a little like Freddie’s but harder. Darker. Will looked away, fingers twitching on the chair. “You had an intuitive leap at the crime scene?”

“I had the start of one,” Will mumbled, too disoriented by dormant instincts to shut up. “Too many distractions.” 

“Well, if you believe it might help the case, I’d be happy to help you remember what you might have felt at the scene. In a safe environment and at your own pace.” Hannibal smiled. “Any revelations will be relayed to the FBI with full credit. Or not, if that’s what you prefer.” 

“I don’t think I can afford a psychiatrist on my stipend.” 

“It won’t be a true session. We’ll just be having conversations.” 

“Conversations,” Will repeated with a dry laugh. What the hell. “Fine. If you think it’d help.”

#

“Why did you ask me to be careful with Hannibal?” Will asked as Freddie sat down at the table in the quiet cafe.

“Call it a hunch,” Freddie said, picking up the menu. “Isn’t that what your ‘leaps of intuition’ are?” 

“Who talked this time?” Will said, resigned. 

“Now, you know a good reporter never reveals her sources.” Freddie smiled a wide, red smile and ordered herself an espresso. “I know many people like Hannibal. Powerful, proud, rich white men who are very full of themselves. Fragile, you could say. Destructive when provoked.” 

“Are you warning me off or?”

“Not at all. I’ve been trying to get an angle on the FBI’s mysterious profiler for a while. You might be a way in.” 

“I’m not about to help you write a sting piece about someone who’s trying to help the FBI catch a serial killer,” Will said. 

“I didn’t ask you to,” Freddie said with a faux smile. “You’re the one who invited me here to talk about Hannibal.” 

Will started to speak and waited as serving staff brought them their coffees. “Do you think I should help him? With the Ripper case?” 

“I think you should help the _FBI_ with the Ripper case,” Freddie said. 

“You know what I mean.”

“I know that Jack Crawford’s desperate for results, desperate enough that he’s taking on people he shouldn’t trust.”

“And are you an expert on what a man like Jack Crawford—an experienced, highly decorated agent—should do?” Will said, sipping his coffee. “That’s a little infantilising, isn’t it?”

“Doctor Lecter’s background isn’t in criminal psychology. He hasn’t even been a psychiatrist for very long, compared to the other psychiatrists affiliated with the FBI. He was a surgeon. Why him?”

Will lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. “It isn’t unusual for a less-qualified white man to fall face-first into a job despite there being far more qualified people available.” 

“So you also don’t believe that Hannibal is qualified for the role.”

“I believe that Jack Crawford is called ‘the Guru’ in FBI circles for a reason. You don’t get a moniker like that without good instincts. Maybe he sees something about Hannibal that we don’t,” Will said. 

“Will,” Freddie said, sipping her coffee, “if you’re here to ask me for my opinion, I’ve given it to you. If you’re here to try and get me to give you an opinion that’d make you feel better about yourself, I’ve never been that kind of woman.”

“I know, I.” Will rubbed his face with his palm, frustrated. “Sorry. I’m trying to… look. Something feels off. And I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been by myself too long, or I’m becoming irrational, or.” 

“Or there’s something there,” Freddie said, smiling a hard, red smile. “What do you actually want from me?” 

“If you’ve been trying to get an ‘angle’ on Hannibal for a while, you must have done a lot of research before coming to a dead end. Pass it to me.” 

“Who said I’m at a dead end?” Freddie finished her coffee without once averting her eyes. “Let’s talk terms.”

#

“I thought you said he wouldn’t kill again so soon,” Jack said as Will stared at the bust nailed to a tree stump. From the neck down to half of the torso, the body was human, wrapped in straw. An artichoke stalk pushed out from the straw trap, its stem stained in blood. Vegetables and fruits were pinned over the shaved head, completely covering the skin.

“It’s only been a week. It’s. Excuse me.” Will turned away, dizzy and rubbing his temple. It wasn’t nausea that pushed up through his throat; it was something worse. Nostalgia. He took a step forward and swayed, only to fetch up against an immovable bulk who steadied him with a touch. Expensive, subtle aftershave. Will looked up into Hannibal’s carefully friendly face. 

“Need a moment, Graham?” Jack asked. He sounded annoyed. “Doctor, you’re late.”

“I was with a patient when I got the call,” Hannibal said. He didn’t let go of Will, though he loosened his grip as Will pulled back. “Hm. A recreation of Summer by Giuseppe Arcimboldo, I believe.” 

“It’s not the Ripper,” Will said, closing his eyes, trying to breathe.

“Oh?” Hannibal said, even as Jack snapped, “What do you mean?” 

“It’s. Well, look at it. You can see the nails. The pins. Does that look like it’s from the same creator of that peacock pie? Where he even got the folds right? I. Give me a sec.” Will staggered off, taking in deep breaths, fighting off the familiar devouring press over his mind, the winding dark. He stumbled through the woods and fetched up beside a brook, pressing his palms to his knees and breathing hard. 

“Will.” Hannibal had somehow threaded through the woods behind him without Will noticing. “Are you all right?” 

“It’s a shock,” Will lied, trying to concentrate on the water. 

“Of course.” 

“ _You_ don’t seem shocked.” 

“I’ve been consulting on the Ripper for a while. One builds up a sort of emotional callus, as it were. Not a particularly healthy development, perhaps.” 

“It’s a copycat,” Will muttered, rubbing his hands together as he straightened up. “An admirer. He was so excited by his flattery that he had to redo some of the nails. He. Jesus.” Kneeling, Will splashed his face with the icy water. That helped. The impression faded, easing the weight on his mind. 

Hannibal stared at him with the gentle curiosity of a zoologist observing a novel specimen. “You had one of your leaps of intuition, but you chose to push it away.” 

“Excellent observation. Your clients must be getting what they’re paying for.”

“You haven’t rung in for a conversation,” Hannibal said, smiling. “I confess I’ve been rather disappointed.” 

“You’re going to be busy is what you are,” Will said, trudging back up from the brook. “The Ripper’s petty and vain. He’ll murder this copycat killer in some suitably ironic fashion. Probably soon.”

“Or they could become friends,” Hannibal said. Will laughed. “You don’t think that’s possible?” 

“I don’t know.” Will braced himself, waiting for the stifling weight to compress over his thoughts. When it didn’t come, he splashed his face again. “It’s good not to know,” he murmured. 

Hannibal had good ears. “You don’t wish to see it.” 

“Why would I want to see it? Not like it matters. Help the police?” Will let out a shaky laugh. “Do you know how many people the American police kill every year? A thousand people, give or take. Every year. I think the count this year is what, over seven hundred? Eight hundred? It’s hard to care.” 

“About the number of deaths?” Hannibal asked. 

“Just about death in general.” Bile rose in Will’s throat. He knelt again, re-washing his face. “Just the thought of it all. Pointless. Overwhelmingly pointless. Why are we even here?” 

“I wouldn’t call trying to catch a serial killer pointless,” Hannibal said, though he looked out over the water with a thoughtful expression. 

“Murder is a symptom of societal illnesses,” Will said, rubbing his face. “You were a doctor, weren’t you? Are a doctor. Would you advise a patient to suppress their symptoms, rather than advise them to treat what was wrong with them?” 

“Sometimes it is necessary to suppress dangerous symptoms,” Hannibal said with a faint smile, “while trying to find a way to manage the problem itself.” 

“We’re all sick, that’s the problem. The doctors, the patients, everyone.” Will lurched to his feet, scrubbing his hand over his face. “You’d better get back to the crime scene. I don’t think Crawford’s the patient type.” 

“He’ll have my detailed report later today. Let me send you home.” 

“I drove, thanks. Though. We could get a coffee,” Will said, even though every part of him just wanted to crawl home and lie among all his dogs. 

“I know a place,” Hannibal said.

#

“Your disillusionment with the world freezes you in a state of inertia,” Hannibal said.

Sunk into the couch in Hannibal’s office, Will laughed, closing his eyes. “You don’t waste time with these free consults, do you? Yes, why not, let’s start with my existential crisis.” 

“A consequence, perhaps, of your naturally heightened sense of empathy?”

Will scoffed. He wished he’d come to this little brain-picking exercise less sober, and yet—doing at least one of these chats was part of the terms he’d agreed to with Lounds. Hannibal’s office didn’t look anywhere beyond what Will expected. Mezzanine library, muted tones. It looked like an old-fashioned European gentleman’s club, one of those old-world ones of cigars and powerful men, one that excluded women. 

“If I were truly empathetic, I would care more about everyone,” Will said, rubbing his face. “I’d run for office. Or maybe work in local politics. Try to join a school board, or push for police reform. Instead, I took the money they gave me and hid in the woods.” 

“You feel like a fraud.” 

“Not at all. I know exactly what I am. No one of particular consequence, yet someone born with a gender and skin colour that gives me enough privilege in our terrible broken world to be able to sit here and opine about how broken it is instead of doing anything about it. Because either way, the world as it is now suits someone like me.” Will glanced at Hannibal with a wry smile, patting the armrests of his chair. “An armchair opinionator.” 

“So why don’t you start with small steps? Volunteer for an organisation. Consult for the FBI, perhaps.” Hannibal looked clinically curious. 

“You won’t get me that way, Doctor.” 

“This isn’t an attempt to get you to consult for Jack,” Hannibal said. 

“Then what?” 

“Perhaps I enjoy your company.” Hannibal smiled his considered smile. 

“Are you flirting with me?” Will asked, amused. 

“Would that be so funny?”

“Rather unethical, isn’t it?”

“It would be unethical, were we in a doctor-patient relationship. Which we are not.” 

“Your love of technicalities betrays you as a petty person.”

Hannibal chuckled. “I never claimed not to be. Everyone’s entitled to the occasional character flaw.”

“Is that something that a psychiatrist should be advocating?” 

“Of course. Perfection is impossible, and the pursuit of perfection, at least in a person’s character, could lead to its own problems.” 

“So in what area is the pursuit of perfection acceptable?” Will asked, drawn into the slightly absurd conversation despite himself. Hannibal had a magnetic air about him that reminded Will of the first time he’d seen a cobra unfurl its speckled hood, graceful and confident and in wait.

“Cooking, in my opinion,” Hannibal said, crossing his long legs. “Perhaps you’d be open to assisting me in the same? If you’re free for dinner, that is.” 

“We _are_ flirting,” Will said. “Aren’t we?” 

“If you like,” Hannibal said, his accent giving the words a sibilant thrill.

#

This was probably not how Freddie intended Will to get ‘close’ to Hannibal. Or perhaps it was. Freddie belonged to a particular subset of the free press that lacked ethics and morality. Hannibal had what Will could only call an expansively over-the-top understanding of what ‘home cooking’ entailed, the sort of expansiveness that could only have come from an equally expansively privileged lifestyle.

Will wasn’t sure why he kept coming back. Hannibal’s cooking was all very well, but he belonged to a subset of people whom Will usually either avoided or despised. The kiss was a surprise, coming as it was after a dessert that Will later told Hannibal that he disliked: a chocolate mousse, made rich but bitter with a touch of lamb’s blood. 

“Because of the blood?” Hannibal asked, as he stacked dishes into the dishwasher. 

“Because of its bitterness,” Will said, which was the same thing, said differently. Hannibal hummed, sleeves rolled up over his powerful arms. He washed and dried his hands and drew Will over for another kiss, bitter as the dessert still tasted between their lips. A fitting taste for a first kiss, with Will still ambivalent, with Hannibal still so unreadable.

#

“Anything?” Freddie asked as they sat down for coffee in a tiny cafe near a park.

“I don’t know,” Will admitted after the coffee came. “There’s something strange about him, but I don’t know what.” 

Freddie nodded grimly. “That’s what I think. Something’s off, but I can’t figure it out.” 

“I’m not in favour of destroying someone just because he ‘feels off’,” Will warned. “Far as I can tell, he’s a respected psychiatrist. Established practice. Lots of powerful friends.” 

“People like that often have something to hide, because they think themselves untouchable,” Freddie said. 

“Sounds like you have a grudge.” 

“Not at all—only an ongoing curiosity. Maybe it’s nothing. Often, people like that, their little secret is that they have a mistress somewhere. Or commit tax fraud, or have embarrassing sexual kinks, or have a massive secret hoard of illicit porn. Boring little secrets.”

“You think illicit porn and sexual kinks are boring?” Will asked, though he smiled wanly. 

“Surely you’ve seen all manner of ugly little secrets as an officer. 

“The ugliest secrets often weren’t even secrets,” Will said, staring at his cup as he sipped. “Some officers abused their wives and partners. Sometimes you’d get desperate women coming to the precinct, hoping that someone—anyone—would be able to tell their cop husband to stop. Black eyes, broken arms, seen it all. Nothing ever happened. After a while, they’d stop coming, and you’d wonder if they died.” 

“Seen it all and did nothing,” Freddie said, smiling. 

“Yeah. I don’t know what you’re hoping for from me, to be honest.” Will drained his cup, getting to his feet. “I’m not a good person. Never claimed to be.” 

“I’m not looking for one,” Freddie said, watching him go.

#

Will lay on the grass with his dogs, breathing slowly. He could smell the earth under the sharp, clean grass scents, the river, the dogs. Peacocks and art and pies. A month had gone by without another discovered kill. Either the copycat killer was dead and hadn’t yet been found, or the Ripper was biding his time. The news cycle had already forgotten all about the gruesome murders, going back to obsessively covering the latest political trash fire. If the world didn’t seem to care, why should he? The death was one drop in an endless pool, spread worldwide.

He could afford not to care. Many others couldn’t. 

“Will.” 

“You again,” Will said, without looking over. Hannibal had taken to driving around regularly, always with a neatly packaged tupperware offering. Ever elaborate, always different. Bemused, Will hadn’t been sure what to say. “This is weird.” 

“What is?” Hannibal didn’t sit on the grass—the stains would ruin his tailored trousers. He stood close by instead, picking carefully through the dogs. 

“You. Being here.” 

“Is it?” 

“It’s a long drive from where you live. Or practice. Far out way over here to chat up a hermit fisherman with issues.” 

“The drive isn’t so bad, and I did hope that we were far past the ‘chatting up’ stage,” Hannibal said, smiling. Even now, he smiled the way he did at the start. 

It unsettled Will to see it, even as he allowed Hannibal to pull him to his feet. To tug him close, to kiss him under the warmth of the sun. Will nipped Hannibal and tension shivered through the powerful frame under his palms, Hannibal’s hands closing bruisingly tight over Will’s hips for an instant. Was that it? Violence? It’d explain why Hannibal felt drawn to Will, whose so-called empathy only seemed to function where a murder was concerned. It would explain the ill-fitting poise that Hannibal cultivated, the reason why he chose to consult for the FBI. 

Will relaxed. He pushed Hannibal against the tree, ignoring Hannibal’s murmured protest about his clothes. Will kissed Hannibal more roughly, bloodying the swell of his lip on Hannibal’s teeth. Hannibal exhaled loudly as he tasted blood, his tongue swiping as delicately over Will’s lip as he would a considered swash of jus. His big hands rubbed demandingly up Will’s spine, clenching over his clothes. Closing over the back of Will’s neck with just enough pressure to push Will’s trained sense of self-preservation into alarm. Will knotted his fingers in Hannibal’s tie, pulling it tighter. The pressure against his throat eased, and Hannibal gasped, the sound pressed between them, spiced with hunger. 

“Can we move elsewhere?” Hannibal asked, stroking Will’s cheek. 

“What’s wrong with here?” Will shot back, just for the hell of it. He gasped as Hannibal gave him a measured glance and turned Will against the tree, going down on his knees. “Hannibal—your clothes—”

“I know a good dry cleaner,” Hannibal said, smiling as he undid Will’s belt buckle. “Second thoughts?” 

“Not anymore,” Will said, pinned by the spark of hunger in Hannibal’s eyes, so much more like a predator’s than a lover’s. 

It kept him braced against the tree, his hands frozen on Hannibal’s broad shoulders as Hannibal unzipped him and eased out his cock with nimble fingers. Will was caught being glad that he’d taken a bath in the morning and getting unsettled all over again by how Hannibal looked him over, slow and hungry. He licked the stiffening tip, then breathed Will in, even though the musk couldn’t be that good even clean. 

Maybe Hannibal was into this kind of thing, being put in a position out of power. Will didn’t think so somehow. Not with how Hannibal braced Will against the tree as he took Will into his mouth, going at his pace. He fit Will over his tongue, letting Will ease in and out of his clenching throat with graceful ease, never gagging. Trust Hannibal to make even sucking cock an elegant performance. Not even a hair out of place. Only a flush to his cheeks as he shut his eyes and hummed and sucked at Will as though Will were a rare treat, a refined taste. 

Disoriented, Will nearly expected Hannibal to bite down, for the pain to start. He was starting to dissociate, his knees pressed against tense shoulders. Will felt like he could smell the coppery-bright stench of blood rising off Hannibal’s skin, from the stretched line of his lips, even though it wasn't really there. It should’ve turned him off, but it made him harder instead, made him moan and press into Hannibal’s rhythm, hips starting to stutter. Hannibal made a strange rumbling sound as Will tried to warn him, sucking harder, slowing only as Will yelped and pulsed down his throat.

#

It seemed trite to invite Hannibal over for lousy coffee, to a house that Will hadn’t vacuumed all week. Tumbleweeds of dog fur rolled gently over the ground as the dogs piled into the living room, following Will excitedly as he went to make coffee. As Will went through the motions, he scratched his jaw, then rubbed the heel of his palm sharply over his face. Disoriented. Still disoriented.

“Will?” Hannibal asked from the kitchen door. 

Will turned. “Uh, just take a seat somewhere, and I’ll bring the coffee.”

“Need help?” 

“No,” Will said, then, “well, yes. But not with this. Just. Sit.” 

Hannibal sat in the kitchen instead of in the living room, surveying the tiny kitchen with curiosity. “Not what you’re used to, I know,” Will said. 

“Cosy,” Hannibal said.

“I don’t use it for much.” Will poured out two cups and sat opposite Hannibal, their knees touching.

“You said you needed help.” 

“I think.” Will hesitated, twisting his fingers together. “Seeing how you, and Freddie Lounds, and Crawford and all that are so driven to catch the Ripper? I think I’d like to care. Not just about the Ripper, but. Everything else too. The world. I know that not being able to have to care is itself a privilege. Yet the part of me that should feels hollowed out. Exhausted. Like there’s nothing else to be done, like everything’s so broken that trying to do anything at all would be like patching a band-aid on a mortal wound. So. How do I start?” 

Hannibal considered this as he sipped the coffee. He frowned, then politely set the cup down. “Wishing you could care is a start,” Hannibal said.

“Not nearly enough, is it? Not with what, the world only having a few years left to get its shit together.” 

“I would say that there’s no harm in faking it,” Hannibal said, “and going through the motions of caring. Over and over, until you do care. You’d be surprised how easily something like that would come. Start reading the news. Getting involved—not with the FBI, if you can’t handle that yet. In smaller ventures.”

“Smaller ventures,” Will said, downing his coffee. “Huh. I think I could do that.” 

“I’d be glad to help,” Hannibal said with a quick smile, “and someday, should you wish to catch the Ripper, I’d welcome it.” 

“Long time more, I think.” Will couldn’t yet imagine going back to the field. Everything else, though—maybe he could. 

“We’ll see. Dinner, perhaps? My place.”

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @manic_intent  
> my writing process, donation fic policy, art, original work/book etc: manicintent.carrd.co  
> \--  
> Refs:  
> The matter of officer Stephen Mader, who refused to shoot someone and was therefore fired from his job (settled lawsuit): https://features.propublica.org/weirton/police-shooting-lethal-force-cop-fired-west-virginia/  
> https://homecamp.com.au/beginners-guide-fly-fishing/
> 
> The matter of officer Adrian Schoolcraft, who was forcibly admitted to a psychiatric ward at Jamaica Hospital Medical Centre by his bosses in retaliation for reporting various misconduct to Internal Affairs, including about officers ignoring or altering criminal complaints (settled lawsuit) https://www.nytimes.com/2015/09/30/nyregion/officer-who-disclosed-police-misconduct-settles-suit.html
> 
> https://mappingpoliceviolence.org/  
> https://www.washingtonpost.com/graphics/2019/national/police-shootings-2019/  
> https://highline.huffingtonpost.com/articles/en/police-domestic-violence/ 
> 
> and finally: https://votesaveamerica.com / iwillvote.com


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